


as above, so below

by hellsteeth



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, F/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Season 8, post-deadalive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsteeth/pseuds/hellsteeth
Summary: After Mulder's funeral, Scully suffers from vivid visions of being buried aliveTW: claustrophobia, PTSD
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	as above, so below

Scully turns down her mother’s many offers to stay the night and keep her company after Mulder’s funeral. The air in her apartment is still and cold when she cracks her front door open and crosses the threshold, a hand glued protectively over the subtle swell of her stomach. It’s the last piece she has of him. In return, part of her had been washed out with bitter tears and remains in the frozen soil back in Raleigh.

She expects to toss and turn, but the exhaustion of grief coupled with the daily effort of growing a human being mercifully allows sleep to wash over her. Scully pulls her comforter up to her chin and turns on her side, trying to ignore the way a star-spangled casket flashes behind her eyelids as she drifts off.

_Darkness presses in on her from all sides, so thick she could almost choke on it. It is accompanied by a silence that alerts Scully to the fact that neither her heartbeat nor the sound of her breathing can be heard. Instinctively, she tries to suck in a breath, but her body betrays her and refuses to do its job. She expects the burn of suffocation, but its absence is even more disturbing. Below her is a silk lining and miles of dirt and rock. Above, six feet of soil and wind whistling morosely over a North Carolina cemetery._

_She wants to slam her fists against the lid of her subterranean prison and scream for help but can only lay perfectly still. An oppressive cold invades her body, seeping down into her bones. She does not shiver._

_She’d be terrified of dying here, but it occurs to her suddenly that she is supposed to be dead already. If that’s the case, why is she so aware of the weight of the soil pressing down on the top of the casket? Why does it feel like the walls are closing in on her as the ground continues to swallow her up? The only physical sensation that still reaches her is horror. It churns her stomach and strains her throat with a noiseless scream._

_She’s trapped here, alone and rotting, while the world above goes about its business and forgets her._

Scully wakes with a gasp, senses washing over her and pulling her back to reality. The ticking of her watch on the bedside table, the soft pillowcase against her cheek, her own sweaty hair plastered to the back of her neck, the life under her palm. She’s okay. She’s home. An abrasive ambulance siren from the street below is a welcome reminder that other people exist.

She rises from bed with a grunt and walks into the bathroom, not bothering to turn the light on. Water hits the basin of the sink and Scully splashes it onto the hot skin of her cheeks before scooping handfuls of it into her mouth. It feels cool and calming as it goes down, but her hands still shake as she turns off the tap and walks back to bed. Her heart rate slowly returns to normal and her nausea fades, but it’s hard to ignore the way that this dream feels similar to the visions of Mulder that have haunted her in the past.

So much changes in the weeks and months following the funeral. Scully watches and feels her body stretch and grow to accommodate the life blossoming inside it. The absence of Mulder, and the finality of his death, begins to feel less like a gushing wound and more like the scar of a near-fatal injury. She’ll limp with it for the rest of her life.

Even the dream changes. No longer is she safe in the prison of the casket, far below the surface of the Earth. As rain replaces snow and cherry blossoms decorate Washington, water and mud seep into her clothes and fill her mouth every night. As she lays silently and still as a statue, she wonders how long it’ll take for her to turn to dust and bone, whether she’ll still return to this place even then.

The only aspect that does not change is terror that reaches deep into her chest and yanks on her heart when she wakes.

When she finishes autopsies and sews up the incisions made by her own blade, she can only think of the eternity of lonely horror to which each body is being sent. Her eyes fall on the chalky corpse of a young woman and she sees only Mulder, lifeless and rotting hundred of miles away. 

Death has always clung to Scully, its stench sinking into her clothes and hair after a long night in the morgue, its shadowy hand plucking her loved ones away one by one. Now, its reach is farther than ever. It alienates her from her unborn child, Mulder’s child. Though she is grateful for every kick, every silhouette on the ultrasound screen, it feels wrong to overflow with new life when part of her has already been claimed by death.

But as she’s been trained to do throughout her entire life, Scully carries on. She steadies the wobbling of her chin and buys onesies and takes her vitamins. She finally visits the maternity section of her favorite shop and lets herself contemplate the fact that she’d once given up on needing larger blazers as she buttons one up over her belly and feels the baby kick against her hand. Well, she thinks, Mulder had always appreciated her suits. For once, that train of thought only makes her throat tighten and ache without sending her into hysterical tears.

Slowly, returning from the grave each morning becomes easier. Like her morning shower and cup of decaf, it becomes routine. Despite what the nighttime might suggest, she is alive and has a new and much-anticipated path in front of her. Mulder had never stopped pressing ahead in life, and neither will she. She’ll honor his memory and, hopefully, pass his spirit onto their child.

Mulder’s return is as unexpected and abrupt as his disappearance had been. Scully sits at his bedside and catalogues every curve of his face while he sleeps, marveling at how _alive_ he looks despite his injuries. All this time, she’d been picturing a universe with less and less Mulder every day while he’d remained the same, unbeknownst to everyone.

On some level, she expects the dream to fade into obscurity. Unfortunately, despite the undeniable evidence that Mulder has once again escaped the clutches of death, dreams of decay and an eternity of solitude have not had their fill of her. Even after Mulder has been safely deposited back at his apartment, she finds herself jerking awake in the middle night, coughing at the imagined taste of soil on her tongue.

She holds her phone to her ear before she can even register that she’s dialed Mulder’s cell number. She could hang up, _should_ hang up so she doesn’t burden him with even more information since he’s clearly overwhelmed, but her dark apartment suddenly feels very small and cold, and she’s never had the option to-

“Scully? What’s wrong?”

She listens to his groggy voice, once again taken aback by the fact that just a week ago she was convinced that she’d never hear it again.

“Scully?” his voice is more concerned now, more alert. She can hear him rising from his bed and pacing around his bedroom. “What’s going on?”

Scully takes a deep breath, barely stifling a sob as she lets it out. “Mulder, I-” she swallows. “Never mind. I’m sorry that I woke you. Get some sleep.” Before he can respond, Scully hangs up and sets her phone back on her bedside table. She turns on her side and squeezes her eyes shut, arms crossed over her belly. She’s made it three months without breathing a word of this dream of being buried alive to anyone else, and the last person who needs to hear about it is someone who has just come back from the real thing.

Exhaustion from the past week tugs at her despite her anxiety, and Scully reluctantly returns to her own personal nightmare. It begins as it always does. She’s alone in the darkness and deafening silence. Then, a new element is introduced to torture her. The sound of Mulder’s voice, muffled by the lining of the casket, calls her name over and over again.

 _Please,_ she begs her own mind silently, _I can’t take hearing that. Not right now._

The voice becomes louder and more insistent until she wakes to Mulder’s hot breath in her ear and his arms on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. She sucks in a breath that pulls her fully back to the physical world and opens her eyes. Mulder looks down at her, eyes wide with worry and faded scars accentuated gruesomely by her lamp.

“It’s okay, Scully, it’s okay,” Mulder says, releasing her from his arms and sitting on the edge of her bed. “You were just having a nightmare.”

Scully sits up with some difficulty and nods, still shocked by the sight in front of her. Her fingers itch to reach out and touch his face, to remind herself that this isn’t another trick of her subconscious. “I know.”

“Is that why you called me earlier?” Mulder examines her face, gives her a layman’s version of the medical appraisal that she’s given him dozens of times. “You sounded, I don’t know how to describe it, in pain I guess. At first I thought you were in danger, but then I remembered, “ he motions down to her belly, which sits prominently between them. “I was worried that something was wrong with the baby, or with you.” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Are you feeling okay?”

Scully blinks at him, unsure how to respond. “I’m okay, we both are,” she confirms. Mulder lets out a relieved sigh. “I’ve just been having some difficult dreams since we-” she pauses and he nods at her, urging her to continue. “Since we buried you. I shouldn’t have called and woken you, Mulder. I’m sorry.”

The atmosphere in the room is tense and still between Mulder and Scully as they look at each other with equal measures of worry. Scully sees her own concern reflected in his hazel eyes, and a sudden wet laugh bubbles forth from her lips. Mulder raises his eyebrows, taken aback.

“What?”

Scully smiles a little and shakes her head. “Mulder, you’ve barely been back from the dead for 48 hours and you're worried about me having a nightmare. It's a little funny.”

Mulder acquiesces and shrugs. “Fair enough, but you'd be worried too if you’d seen yourself having that nightmare,” his eyebrows draw closer together and he looks her in the eye. “What were you dreaming about, Scully?”

Scully stiffens, trying to debate whether she should be honest. Eventually, she pushes herself up from the bed and waddles into the kitchen, beckoning for him to follow. It is only once they are both seated on her couch with cups of tea warming their hands that she begins to describe the dream that has been plaguing her since burying him months ago. 

Mulder listens in respectful silence, absorbing her descriptions of being trapped six feet under the ground in a tiny box. Panic laces her voice when she begins to describe the vivid imagery of soil and roots returning her back to the earth, her flesh being replaced with the ooze of decay. Mulder mulls over her words, looking at Scully with a perspective that is a cocktail of psychologist, profiler, and lover.

“At the risk of sounding a little self-involved, this obviously has to do with me. But Scully, I promise that I don’t remember anything from the last three months,” he finally says. “Whatever you were imagining, it wasn’t real.” He drains the last of his tea and sets the cup aside before opening his arms for her.

Scully shakes her head and sets down her own mug before leaning into his touch. Her body has changed, but they still align like puzzle pieces, like muscle memory. Mulder wraps his arms around her front, gingerly placing them on her belly. She rests her hands atop his, letting him know that it’s okay to touch, to acknowledge the most glaring sign of his long absence.

Scully doesn’t know how to explain the feeling of a dream that’s not just a dream, like those she’s had years ago when he’d apparently exploded in an underground trailer, or the absolute terror of watching him be cut open while screaming through her own mind’s eye. She finally settles on resting her head against his shoulder and sighing. “Just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, Mulder,” she says quietly. “We both have so many pieces missing from our lives, things that shouldn’t be possible but have happened all the same.”

Mulder chuckles lightly. “Wow, you’re starting to sound like me. Did I get resurrected in an alternate universe?”

A small smile plays on Scully's lips as she recalls presenting slide shows for Agent Doggett and chasing whatever internal drive had allowed Mulder to leap to such fantastic conclusions. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me, then.”

She yawns and shakes her head. “Another time.”

Mulder nods and presses a light kiss to her hair. A long-unused part of Scully’s heart leaps.

“Okay. Can you tell me about…” his warm hands rub her bump through the silk of her pajamas. “Can you tell me about them?”

She does. It’s the least she can do, filling in all the gaps and milestones that he’s missed. She tells him about her first ultrasound, about the morning sickness and realizing her favorite pair of slacks no longer fit, about breaking the news to her mother and wishing her father were there as well. Mulder nods along and absentmindedly traces shapes over her stomach. His hand freezes when he feels a flutter in response.

“Scully,” He whispers, amazement and joy blooming in his chest. Scully snuffles against his neck, finally claimed by peaceful sleep. Mulder holds her close, guarding her from nightmares and becoming acquainted with his child through a silent communication of caresses and tiny kicks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to comment.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ dr-scuhlly


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